


Oddity

by paperrug, writingisntahobby (paperrug)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-11-19 02:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperrug/pseuds/paperrug, https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperrug/pseuds/writingisntahobby
Summary: It was the boundary trying to force him out. Harry wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry didn't know where he was.

He stumbled down the muggle street, frantically searching for any familiar sign.

The last thing he remembered… He and Malfoy were playing a game of Wizarding Chess in one of Diagon's finer restaurants, to Malfoy's insistence. Harry had lost miserably.

After that, nothing. He couldn't remember a thing. It was a blur, a mess, in his brain. Just trying to decipher what happened made his head ache.

He had tried Apparating to Hogwarts, the Burrow, Godrick's Hallow, Ministry of Magic, Diagon Alley—bloody hell, he had even tried Apparating to Malfoy's spiffy manor. Thereafter, when all else had failed, he had resorted to Apparating to muggle London and walking to Leaky Cauldron by foot.

But there was no Leaky Cauldron. In its place stood an absolutely normal—absolutely muggle—hair salon.

Whenever he had tried to Apparate himself to a magical location, his insides felt horribly violent, as if he was on the verge of splinching himself.

Harry inhaled deeply, stopping and stepping to the side to allow the other pedestrians space to walk.

Harry tried Apparating once more. He clearly imagined the Malfoy Manor and its ridiculous albino peacocks and its massive water fountains. Its fancy furniture and moving paintings; its tall ceilings and hovering magicked chandeliers.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows, breathing deeply. He should've Apparated by now. Focusing harder, Harry felt cold sweat on his neck.

Suddenly, Harry dry heaved, leaning against the wall of a Starbucks. He felt his stomach churn and heart beat so rapidly he feared that it would jump out of his chest. His ribs ached and Harry groaned in pain. Harry felt as if each individual intestine was separated, stretched, and strung out as long as it went. Was it possible to die from pain alone? Coughing and hacking, Harry's throat felt like he had breathed in the fumes of a Fiendfyre for hours. He hated this. The feeling of splinching, without being actually splinched.

Raising the hand he had coughed into a second ago, Harry grimaced when he found it covered in blood.

He couldn't Apparate. At least not to any magical location he knew.

Bloody hell. He was so lost. Hermione was going to kill him.

Harry shuddered as felt his insides burn.

Harry pointed his holly wand at himself. " _Episkey!_ " he snarled. " _Episkey!_ "

He hacked again. The bloody spell was only used for minor injuries.

" _Ferula! Vulnera Sanentur!_ " With a particular vicious jab with his wand, Harry hissed, " _Reparifors!_ "

Oh, how ridiculous Harry must've looked to the muggles walking about.

Nevertheless, Harry sighed in relief. He still felt slightly woozy, but the excruciating pain inside was gone.

"Bloody hell..." Harry tasted copper. He wiped his mouth. "Merlin..."

People around gave him a wide berth, glancing at Harry and scuttling away when he looked up. Harry could understand. He was coughing up blood, still in his embellished wizarding dress robes—and was also madly waving a wooden stick and muttering Latin like a madman.

Waving his wand once again—discretely this time—Harry casted a Notice-Me-Not charm and ducked into the Starbucks he had leaned against only a few seconds ago.

A strong smell of coffee hit his nose. Harry dry heaved once again. Such an intense aroma Harry had once been fond of now made his insides churn.

There were circular tables about, people typing away on some kind of technology Harry struggled to identify. Computers? No. Computers were big, like the one Dudley had. The girl wearing the beanie had something much sharper, much slimmer. Had technology advanced so far during Harry's stay in the Wizarding world? Wait—Harry had heard of it... L-something. Lap... Laptok? But those were uncommon. Bloody expensive too. So expensive that even the selfish twat of the name Dudley didn't receive one for his birthday, no matter how much he begged and demanded.

Harry wretched his attention away. As much as muggle technology was fascinating, Harry had much more pressing matters to deal with.

He stalked off to the direction of the bathrooms in the corner, tiredly muttering, " _Alohomora_ ," and opening the door. The occupant inside squeaked as the previously locked door opened wide for no discernible reason, hurrying himself in his business. The man shoved himself back inside his pants and scrambled out without washing his hands.

Harry locked the door after him.

Trudging up to the mirror, Harry groaned at the sight.

His robe's sleeves, which Malfoy had gifted him (" _They're secondhand_ ," Malfoy had lied as he shoved the extravagantly wrapped gift into Harry's arms), were splattered with blood. Malfoy would not be happy.

Besides that, Harry looked like he always did, albeit a bit pinched and panicked, but still—he looked relatively the same.

Scourgifying his robes, Harry rubbed his eyes and sighed. He leaned against the sink, pondering his situation.

* * *

 

" _The number you have dialed has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in servi_ -"

Harry hung up. He tried again.

And again.

And again.

Slamming the phone on its handle, Harry made a furious swing at the number keys.

Had Hermione changed her number and forgotten to tell him? Had she not remembered to pay her phone bills?

Unlikely. It wasn't like her to forget anything.

Harry reached for the phone again, only the find out it had fizzled out and stopped working from his magical ire.

Cursing, Harry transfigured his clothes into plain muggle shirt and pants, silently apologizing to Malfoy while he did.

Time to keep searching.


	2. Familiar Red Hair

 

Two months.

Harry had traveled to the Scotland grasslands. He had hiked to where Hogwarts should've stood, but he only saw rocky cliffs and tall grass stretching in all directions miles on end. A whole magical castle, built of stone and impervious old wards, had disappeared—or rather, it had seemingly never existed.

The lake was no longer the Black Lake of Hogwarts. There were no Giant Squids or mystical Merpeople or Grindylows. It was just...a simple lake.

It was a disturbingly normal—odd—scene.

It was Harry's worst nightmare.

He simply Apparated away. 

* * *

 

Two months.

After Hogwarts, Harry had traveled to the Burrow. But not on foot this time. Harry wanted to test a theory.

Instead of imagining the Burrow in all its Weasley and magical glory, Harry had imagined the property and neighborhood. He concentrated on the muggle aspects—the non-magical aspects. The brick sidewalks, the neglected mailbox—dirty from disuse after the new Weasley family addition of Pidwidgeon—nestled between the swaying trees, the lush and bright green grass. He tried to not think of the gnomes that infested the gardens or Molly's flying pots and pans.

Harry had Apparated with little fanfare.

He had popped onto the cracked sidewalk, in front of the Weasley property.

But there were no crooked and mismatched stories. Instead of five, there was only one inconspicuous chimney, puffing out smoke in the chilly autumn air, screening the gleaming stars. There were no leaping gnomes in the front yard, or flourishing gardens filled with odd magical specimens, or overgrown vines covering a pond infested with frogs and toads. Instead, there was a neatly clipped yard with polished bushes lining the sides, and one single-story house painted a lifeless and humdrum white.

It was an utterly simple and utterly muggle house.

And in the white mailbox in front of the house, Harry noted dully that the letters were not addressed to any one of the Weasleys.

* * *

 Two months, and Harry Potter had lost hope.

After two months, Harry had drifted around England.

It was always in the back of his mind. Hermione. Draco. Hogwarts.

Magic.

Harry crouched on his haunches. He traced the dirt under him.

Perhaps…

Harry stood up and Apparated.

When Harry landed on the sidewalk, he gazed blankly at the dwelling in front of him.

Never had he thought he would visit willingly.

Harry dragged his feet on the driveway of the house, passing the green grass and pretty flowers Harry had picked weeds out of time and again, every spring and summer since he could recite to the alphabet.

Harry twisted the doorknob, unlocking the door simultaneously with a wandless Alohomora. He walked down the hallway silently, languidly taking in the rug that was different from what he remembered. Walking some more, Harry paused by the staircase, staring at the little cupboard.

He pulled the door open.

There were bottles of bleach and Drano. A blue vacuum neatly tucked in the corner. A green Swiffer mop perched lightly against the wall.

A storage room, then. Probably never housed a little wizard boy.

Harry silently closed the door.

He turned and looked up, staring at the pictures lined along the white wall. No Dudley.

When Harry walked in the kitchen, a boy who was decidedly  _not_  overweight to epic proportions squeaked in surprise, dropping a piece of bacon on his plate. A man  _without_  a curling mustache or resemblance to a whale fell back on his chair. A woman  _not_  possessing a giraffe-like neck screamed.

The man, having scrambled back to his feet, and was sputtering and pointing a thin finger at Harry and yelling. His spittle was flying, and his face was growing to a tomato red—

Finally, something familiar.

Harry simply turned and walked out of number four, Privet Drive.

* * *

 Harry stared blankly at the television.

He was in a small cafe, sitting in a corner with a Muggle-Repelling charm, a small cup of coffee, and half a sandwich he had stolen off another person's table.

2009.

It was 2009.

Harry was born in 1980. Harry was eighteen—he looked eighteen and he  _felt_  eighteen. It should've been 1998.

Harry took a bite of his sandwich and sipped his coffee.

That explained the laptoks.

* * *

 Harry didn't know how far he walked. But far enough for his legs to wobble and feel like noodles.

Was this a dream? A very, very long and detailed one?

Harry wished.

He dragged his feet to a park and collapsed on a bench.

Taking in a shuddering breath, Harry choked down a sob. His world had crumbled away in a blink of an eye. Nothing he remembered was here. But he knew—he knew everything was real. He knew Hogwarts was real. He knew magic was real. And most importantly, he knew that the world he was in now was real. The world where he couldn't find a Draco Malfoy or a Hermione Granger, not even a muggle one.

No dream can replicated the agonizing feeling of splinching—or the swirling, stifling, and suffocating emotions that made Harry feel like drowning.

Harry didn't know what attracted him to the man.

The man was probably in his mid twenties. He pushing his daughter on the swing, chuckling along with her shrieks and whoops. Wide shoulders, sinewy muscles, and bronzed skin. He looked like he had been a professional athlete all his life. He had twinkling eyes ringed with laugh lines and a shock of familiar red hair. Harry supposed that was what had made Harry stare.

But he wasn't the first redhaired person that Harry had encountered in this world, no.

There was a some kind of mystifying aura around the man—and the girl, to some degree. It was a kind of crackling energy that made Harry shiver in his transfigured clothes.

Harry licked his dry lips.

The daughter—she was swinging well on her own, pumping her legs and pitching her body back and forth to gain more momentum. She unlatched her hands and jumped from high up and—

—softly floated down.

As if an invisible hand snagged her mid air and gently lowered her to the ground.

As if by magic.

Harry's mouth felt dry. He felt his heart in his throat.

Before he knew it, Harry lurched to his feet and was stumbling towards the girl.

That was the funny feeling Harry was getting from them. They were a family of wizards. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After all those months of weary searching, one leisurely stay at the park was what led him to magic. His vision was growing blurry.

Just when he was about to reach her—just when he was so close—a thick body filled his field of vision.

Harry looked up. It was the man—the father of the witch.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the man growled. He had an American accent.

He laid an enormous hand on Harry's small chest and powerfully shoved Harry back. Harry tripped and landed on his back.

Harry wheezed. "Your daughter—"

Harry felt his shirt's collar being tugged and he was grappled to his feet. Harry felt his breath leave his body as he was shook back and forth. The man was stronger than he looked, and he looked bloody strong.

"What the fuck do you want with my daughter?" the man hissed, reaching for the back of his jeans—probably to pull out his wand and hex Harry to a place worse than Hell.

Harry choked. How did he expect him to respond when he was practically squeezing the life out of him?

" _Magic_ ," Harry managed to wrangle out, clawing at the hand that held him an inch above ground.

The man stilled. Then his grip grew even tighter. " _Who_ -" the man shook his head. "Who- _What_  are you?"

The man was nervous. Harry suddenly felt giddy. It was a sure sign that Harry was right in his intuition. The girl's accidental magic wasn't a trick of the light or Harry's own delusional mind making up phantom images.

Harry tried to smile, but it quickly fell when the man leaned in—leaned in so close that Harry could see the flecks of gold in his eyes and count his red eyelashes. The man was still murderous and nervous for some reason.

"I'm the same as you," Harry mustered out quickly, palming his wand in the pocket of his jeans, but not pulling it out, incase the man took it as a sign of aggression.

The hold still didn't weaken. The man just narrowed his eyes, eyes whipping up-and-down Harry's unintimidating figure.

Swallowing thickly, Harry let his grip on the man's wrist go and cast a small, discrete compulsion charm with a small flick of his index finger. Wandless magic took quite a lot of Harry's energy. Harry sagged in the man's grip. "I can do the same things as you," Harry murmured weakly. "I'm the same as you. Let go."

The man jerked back. He unceremoniously dropped Harry on his arse.

Harry groaned, feeling his bones rattle. He could feel the bruises blossoming on his arse.

Harry struggled onto his feet, taking the hand the man had offered him in aid—the hand that had lifted him off the ground by a few inches just a second ago. A complete one-eighty in his attitude.

The man looked sheepish, red, and apologetic. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry," he said. "Old habits—you would know. Have to keep your defense up at all times, right?"

Harry nodded, but he couldn't possibly guess what he "would know." As far as Harry knew, in this world, there was no magical society, and thus no Voldemort or the Second Wizarding War. Why would he have to "keep his defense up at all times"? Was it because of the muggles? Unlikely.

Harry rubbed his throat and straightened his shirt, all while the red-haired, red-faced man sputtered apologies. His daughter looked curiously from the distance.

"Didn't think I'd meet another demigod here," the man rambled, still clearly embarrassed. "Just moved to Britain, y'see."

Demi- _what_?

"Gracie and I," the man continued, rubbing the back of his head, "decided that America just wasn't for us. Y'know, not while the gods decided to camp there. Attracts too many monsters—don't like that, not for Gracie. But it's also far away from the camp, so that's bad. There're less monsters, but no company of other demigods—don't worry though! I'm strong enough to protect her. You have to make sacrifices in life if you want to do something, right? That's what Chiron told me anyway, when I asked him after Gracie was born—"

Harry shook his head. He felt dizzy and disoriented from being threatened not a second before. Monsters? Camp? Chiron? Gods?

"What," Harry croaked, interrupting him, "what are you talking about?"

The man paused, and finally— _finally—_ looked at Harry. "Demigods," he said slowly, as if it explained everything. Suddenly, as if he realized something, the man tensed. "You are a demigod, right?"

No, Harry wanted to say, but the words got stuck in his throat. No, not a demigod, whatever that was. A wizard.

What were demigods? Were they the wizards of this world? Who was Chiron? What was the camp—a camp of demigods?

"I-" Harry started to say. What should he say? What could he say? "I-I don't know," he finished lamely.

"You don't know?" The man's eyebrows quirked up, his mouth forming an 'O'.

"I-I don't know what you mean by 'demigod.'" Harry decided to be truthful, if a little.

The man looked startled by the admission. He leaned in—their noses practically touching—and stared at Harry with a critical eye. "You...don't know what demigods are… Now that I think about it, you have a British accent, don't you? That's rare." After catching Harry's confused look, he leaned back quickly, face redder than his hair, and began to elaborate. "Y'see, Olympus—the home of the Greek gods, yeah?—was moved to America a few centuries ago. It moves like that, every so often. Now… Well, the gods like to keep close to home, so they, uh, find mortals in America and, uh, make babies—demigods, that is. They don't usually scour other countries for that sort of thing. So for the last couple of centuries almost all the demigods were from America—er, that is, North America, specifically the States. Camp Half-Blood, the camp for demigods—people like me and you—moves with Olympus, so you've probably never been trained..."

Harry didn't understand half the mumbo jumbo the man was saying. It slipped into one ear and left through the other.

Greek gods? They existed? And they had children with regular people? And the children had to train? Train in what? For what?

Harry thought the little girl levitating was some bout of accidental magic. A case of panicked magic in the face of injury—not...not godly powers… Definitely not…

So they weren't wizards and witches.

Just when he thought…

Magic—the magic Harry knew—probably didn't exist in this world. Neither were witches or wizards. Hermione or Draco. There were demigods instead.

Harry couldn't stomach such information.

He had known in the back of his head. Merlin, not even the back of his head anymore. It was in the forefront—always in the forefront—with Harry chanting  _it doesn't matter anymore, it's no good crying over spilt milk, get over it_ , every second he could, from when he woke up on a couch in a Target to when he slept on a bed in a Bed Bath & Beyond.

But there was always a sliver of hope. A tiny interjection of denial for every mantra he sang in his head. A teeny feeling of doubt every time he cast a charm or transfiguration. Afterall, if magic existed in him, it must exist elsewhere in the world too, right? Hogwarts could have up and moved to China, the Weasleys could have allowed muggles to build over their beloved Burrow to live with Charlie in Romania, Tom could have sold his father's pub to set up a hair salon—there was no way of knowing. Harry had seemingly skipped eleven years to the future. A lot could have changed between those times, Harry reasoned in his mind.

But the man said the word demigod so surely, so confidently.

Demigods. Not wizards. Greek gods. Not Merlin or Morgana.

There was no Hermione. There was no Draco. There was no Hogwarts, the Burrow, or the Leaky Cauldron. Harry doubted that James and Lily Potter had even existed in this world.

Now, Harry knew for sure.

Everything added up.

Harry swallowed thickly. It seemed as if every world in the universe had their own quirks of extraordinary people.

Harry shook his head, breathing deeply. It's okay, Harry tried to tell himself, biting his lip and closing his eyes. He could feel his insides quiver. He already knew, in a sense. His theory was just confirmed.

Seeing that he had lost Harry's attention, the man quickly became flustered, realizing what horrible job he was doing at explaining.

"Uh, why don't you come by our home?" the man gestured to himself and his daughter, Gracie, who was still staring at them from afar. "Sorry—I suck at explaining things. But I promise I'll try if you come. We'll order some pizza, if you want."

Harry didn't want to. He wanted to hide in a hole. He wanted to be invisible to the world. He wanted to see Hermione and Draco again. He wanted…

Answers.

Harry blinked. He focused his attention back to the red-haired man. "Okay," Harry said.

The man beamed. "Great!" He waved behind him and the girl came running. "This is Gracie."

Harry tried to smile. "Pleasure. I'm Harry. Harry Potter."


	3. Bloody Horses with Wings

Harry learned that the red-haired man was named Arnie.

 

He had eagerly led him to his cramped apartment, on the corner of whatever London suburb Harry had accidentally landed himself in. Bumbling apologies all the way—from his previous mishap with Harry to the utter disarray of his home, which didn’t quite look like a home at the moment but a wreckage passed by a tornado—Arnie and Gracie beamed with welcoming smiles.

 

Harry stepped on a lego, cursing under his breath and grasping at his foot. Gracie, who Harry was quickly learning was a little twerp of a child, shrieked maniacally at his pain, spritzing her Brown Cow Cho-Co Milk across the room—a room Harry couldn’t have guessed was the kitchen if it wasn’t for the stove hiding in the corner, under a mountain of Amazon and TruckMovers boxes.

 

Arnie ordered pizza by computer, claiming that the use of cellular devices was one of the big no-no’s in the unwritten demigod handbook. Something about signals attracting monsters. What kind of monsters? Harry had no clue. But it did remind Harry of the fact that wizards themselves couldn’t use electronic devices, because magic and “eckeltricity,” as Arthur Weasley liked to put it, didn’t mix.

 

Maybe this world wasn’t so different after all.

 

Arnie had insisted that they wait for the food to be delivered before delving into the “big stuff,” as he had called it. Harry didn’t know what to do.

 

It wasn’t as if there was a big variety of options given to alleviate Harry’s impending boredom, and thoughts that he _did not_ want to dwell on yet. Harry couldn’t even stretch his legs fully, lest he knock down the carefully balanced box mountains.

 

“Sorry about the mess,” Arnie apologized for the millionth time, pulling up a chair next to Harry’s. “We just moved in.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said. “I sort-of intruded.”

 

“And I sort-of choked you,” Arnie shot back in return, scratching his head. “This is the least I can do.”

 

Harry grunted in reply. He was The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Beat-Voldemort, and he was manhandled like some kind of common criminal. He was even more sore that he let it happen in the first place.

 

When the pizza finally came, Harry had stepped on his fourth lego. He was beginning to suspect that the devil by the name of Gracie was secretly levitating them under his feet wherever he walked.

 

While they ate, Arnie tried to clarify whatever Harry didn’t know. And Harry didn’t know a lot.

 

So Arnie had to explain everything. Not that he seemed to mind.

 

He talked about Greek gods, Camp Half-Blood, and demigods. Arnie tried to name all the gods that Harry shouldn’t anger (and, Harry noticed, seemed to list every single god in existence), what activities they did in camp (archery, sword fighting, Capture the Flag, and scaling a climbing wall that spilled...lava?), and a strange phenomenon called the Mist. Arnie had apparently decided himself that Harry would go to Camp Half-Blood, nodding into his pizza like there was no possible reason Harry would _not_ go to such an amazing place that spilled scorching lava on its own campers.

 

“Our camp director is Dionysus, the wine god. But he doesn’t really direct the camp, per se…” Arnie grumbled, “More like directs himself getting drunk on Diet Coke…” He then hurriedly looked up at the ceiling, as if he was afraid that he would be blasted out of his seat.

 

Harry stared at him. They had a Greek god as a bloody _camp director._

 

Harry still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the existence of gods. He could understand why people would believe in _God_ , capital _G_ , because Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would sometimes forced him into Dudley’s old Sunday attire to attend church, lest the neighbors pin him with the label “un-Christian” and _them_ by association.

 

But _that_ was a common belief. Greek mythology was not. It was just that— _mythology._

 

“...and he made Zeus swear on the River Styx! Now the gods _have_ to claim their children!” Arnie chuckled into his sixth pizza. Gracie giggled with him, face scrunched up behind her own slice. “So anyway, that was the Second Titan War. That reminds me—do you know who your godly parent is?”

 

Harry paused, then he shook his head. He didn’t have a godly parent. His parents were wizards, James and Lily Potter. “No,” Harry still said, “I don’t know who my godly parent is.”

 

“Oh… That’s strange. You’d think that after what Percy did, they’d…” Arnie tapped his chin, leaving shiny grease stains on his skin. He wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt. Harry remembered the moments when Draco pitched a fit about ‘pureblood etiquette’ when he had caught Harry doing the same.

 

“Have you had any signs?” Arnie asked.

 

“Er—what?”

 

“Demigods typically have special traits passed down from their godly parent. Like Apollo’s kids are wicked at archery and poetry. Athena’s children are smart—and blonde, if you count that as a skill… Gracie and I are descendents of Hecate ourselves, the goddess of magic. Gracie is more of a second generation descendent, so Hecate is her grandmama.” He swooped in to poke the devil child’s nose. “Isn’t that right, Gracie?” he cooed.

 

“Yep!” she cried out cheerfully, fiddling with a blue lego. There was tomato sauce in the ridges. “Grandmama Hecate!”

 

Harry shuddered when she pointedly smiled at him, proudly showcasing her lego piece curled between her fingers, just like she showcased the empty hole in her front teeth.

 

Harry wretched his attention away. “Magic?” he managed to voice.

 

“Yeah!” Arnie beamed. “Children of Hecate can do wicked, _wicked_ things. Like controlling the Mist and turning people into animals—”

 

Harry leaned in. He didn’t know that demigods had abilities resembling a wizard’s, besides Gracie’s whole levitating-thing. “You can turn people into animals?”

 

“Well, _I_ can’t,” Arnie said, ducking his head. “It takes _centuries_ to be able to do that. Though I can use pig bombs.” Harry didn’t ask what _pig bombs_ were. “Circe, one of the most powerful children of Hecate, can do it. She’s a sorceress…”

 

Harry leaned back. So abilities here were different after all. Hogwarts taught human transfiguration starting from sixth year, though Harry could never claim to be a professional at it.

 

Arnie continued. “Percy told us about her—apparently she tried, well, _did_ actually turn him into a guinea pig—or was it a hamster? Oh, oh! Speaking of talents, Percy Jackson can control water, ‘cause he’s the son of Poseidon. It’s really, _really_ cool to see him bring up huge waves and twirl it behind him like it’s nothing—I saw him do it during a game of Capture the Flag. Real cool powers. Real cool guy too.”

 

Percy Jackson. That name was coming up often. Son of Poseidon, was it? Apparently a big deal, since the Poseidon was one of the three major gods.

 

Harry rubbed his eyes. What a long day. _Gods_. He was thinking about _gods_ so casually like he had already accepted it as a fact. Merlin, he was tired.

 

Arnie bumbled, “Gods, sorry! It’s getting late and I’m babbling on and on.” Arnie glanced at Harry and coughed into his hand. “I-I think I know who your godly parent is.”

 

Harry blinked. “I _really_ doubt it.”

 

“No, no! I really think I do. Back there, at the park? That feeling, when you told me that you were a demigod too? I didn’t believe you and I was about slice you in half—” Harry sputtered. “—but I stopped because there was that…” Arnie scratched his head. “...that _feeling_.” He cleared his throat. “Charmspeak.”

 

“Uh…”

 

“Of course, you don’t know what charmspeak is,” Arnie hurriedly said. “It’s like a thing when someone talks and you feel a _need_ to comply. There's a girl—Drew Tanaka, I think?—who can do the same back at camp, though her’s isn’t quite as strong as yours...”

 

Harry leaned back on his folded hands, remembering what exactly the redhead was talking about. Arnie had felt the Compulsive Charm. And he thought that it was some ability called charmspeak.

 

“Ah...that wasn’t the only clue…” Arnie trailed off.

 

“What other clue? And what god does charmspeak point to?”

 

Arnie paused. “You know what? Nevermind,” Arnie said. “Forget I said anything.”

 

“C’mon,” Harry chortled, albeit sincerely curious on who Arnie’s positively wrong guess was, “I want to know who my godly parent is.”

 

“Nevermind it! Um, I’m going to go IM Chiron and tell him that I found a demigod in Britain. You have to meet him, he’s amazing. He’ll teach you how to defend yourself. By the way, you’re amazing, y’know?” The redhead barked a laugh, massaging his left muscular shoulder with his right hand. “Demigods usually don’t last this long by themselves, even if there are fewer monsters here. Ah, anyway, how old are you, Harry?”

 

“I’m eighteen.”

 

“Eighteen! Do you live with your dad? Or Mom?”

 

Harry rubbed his chin. What was the appropriate response? “Never knew them. I used to live with my uncle and aunt, now I live alone.”

 

Arnie looked like he was conflicted between asking more questions and giving Harry space. Merlin, was the redhead an open book. He settled for: “That’s okay. I guess we’ll find out soon enough who your godly parent is, right?” Then he backed away awkwardly into another room, blabbing something about _Chiron_ and _rainbows_ and _drachmas_.

 

Harry just sat there, next to a partially opened Amazon box with a Poseidon action figure, while Arnie undoubtedly floundered somewhere down the hallway.

 

When Arnie didn’t come back after two minutes, the child she-devil spoke up from behind her soggy pizza, “Daddy’s weird today.”

 

“Got that,” Harry muttered, silently pleading to whatever god listening that that would be the end of the conversation.

 

“ _You’re_ making Daddy weird.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Her cheek grew puffy and ruddy from his lack of response. “You can do charm’eak?”

 

“That’s what your dad said,” Harry said slowly, staring at his folded hands, avoiding her intense gaze.

 

The child was apparently unused to not being the center of attention. She threw her pizza on the floor. “Stupid Aphrodite! All Aphrodite children dumb! Dumb, dumb, dumb!”

 

Harry jumped in his chair when he heard a deafening clap of thunder, a strangled yelp stuck in his throat. He frantically scrambled next to the window and peered out. The sky was a crystal blue and clear of clouds.  Didn’t Arnie say something about not insulting the gods if he didn’t want to be burnt to a crisp?

 

“Dumb Harry! Dumb, dumb, dumb Aphrodite!”

 

Harry cursed a word that made Gracie shriek in response. “Please don’t, Gracie,” Harry pleaded.

 

The devil child apparently took a particular delight in Harry’s reaction. “Dumb Harry! Your charm’eak doesn’t work on me!”

 

“I’m not using bloody _charmspeak_ ,” Harry whimpered, feeling the hair on his arms rise. Merlin’s beard, he could feel an ominous, heavy atmosphere swirling around his very core.

 

The sky thundered again. Harry’s nostrils flared. Was that...ozone he smelled? Merlin, it was a sunny day out and the sky was rumbling and growling as if it had an empty stomach.

 

If he didn’t believe in gods before, he sure as hell did now.

 

Gracie clapped in amusement, giggling at her newfound attention. She shrieked, “Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb Aphrodite!”

 

Harry gritted his teeth, arms tense as he debated whether he should whip out his wand and _stupefy_ the devil-girl right then and there. Somehow he doubted that Arnie, who Harry had taken a particular fondness of, would be happy to find his daughter knocked unconscious. But if he didn’t shut her up in the next three seconds, the man’s house would probably be struck by lightning and burned down—and the occupants of said house would burn along with it. Harry could already see it on the telly: _“Freak accident of lightning causes three deaths. Bodies found charred, unrecognizable, and gross.”_

 

Palming his wand, Harry breathed the Compulsive Charm under his breath. Gracie abruptly stopped her chant, eyes glazed over.

 

“Stop,” Harry said, eyes narrowed. He had to wrestle down a smirk when she stared at him with avid focus. “Stop saying that.”

 

“ _Okay,_ ” she breathed adoringly, eyes wide.

 

Harry couldn’t stop the vindictive smugness blossoming in his chest. Little prat had it coming. “Be nice to me. No more legos under my feet.”

 

She nodded briskly.

 

“And apologize to, er, Afrodee-tee?” he stuttered. He wasn’t terribly knowledgeable in Greek mythology. Hogwarts didn’t teach him such things. And he left muggle school before that sort-of curriculum was introduced.

 

“M’sorry, Miss Aphrodite,” Gracie echoed. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

 

 _Miss_ _Aphrodite_. So Aphrodite was a goddess, not a god.

 

The angry, rolling thundering didn’t stop, but it did soften.

 

Harry sighed in relief, collapsing back on the kitchen chair. Merlin, potential death-by-lightning-and-fire averted.

 

* * *

 

“I IM’d Chiron.”

 

“That’s good.” Though how the man instant messaged anyone, Harry didn’t know. The computer was directly in Harry’s line of sight, and the only time he had seen Arnie use the device was for ordering pizza.

 

“Wait, wait,” Arnie muttered, slapping his forehead. “I forgot—didn’t you say that you could do magic? Back at the park? Did you have signs? I don't think you've mentioned yet."

 

“...I guess so."

 

“What kinda signs?”

 

Harry didn’t know what to say. It seemed as if every demigod had different abilities according to their godly parent. And Harry didn’t _have_ a godly parent. He was a mortal, a wizard. “Oh...just the general sense of the word. Like…” Harry was at a loss of words.

 

“Like charmspeak?” Arnie supplied helpfully.

 

“Yes!” Harry exclaimed, perhaps a little too excitedly. “Like charmspeak. I didn’t really know what it was that made people do whatever I told them to do. I knew it wasn’t normal. I just called it magic.”

 

Arnie nodded understandingly. “So you saw Gracie’s levitation and connected it to your...speaking abilities?”

 

Harry nodded, swallowing inconspicuously.

 

_Please buy it. Please buy it. Please buy—_

 

“That’s amazing!” Arnie concluded excitedly. Harry resisted the urge to sigh. Arnie wasn’t the smartest tool in the shed—but it served Harry’s intentions well, so he couldn’t complain. “You must be really smart.”

 

Harry just nodded. He wasn’t really. Hermione...she was the smart one.

 

“Ah!” Arnie exclaimed eagerly, eyes lifting from his watch to Harry’s face. “Your ride’ll be here soon.”

 

He stood up abruptly, lugging Harry with him by the arm. Holding onto Harry’s wrist, Arnie kicked away the boxes in his way and walked briskly toward the door.

 

“Gracie, honey, stay here for your dad, will you?”

 

“Yessir!” She saluted comically.

 

“Wait! What ride—?” Harry’s wrist was tugged by Arnie’s insistent hand.

 

“C’mon!”

 

They burst out the apartment door. Harry’s arm was practically wrenched out of its socket when Arnie rushed enthusiastically down the stairs, passing the community pool, and down another set of stairs leading to an underground parking lot.

 

Finally, they came to a stop. They were in a dark and musty parking lot, sparse of any cars except the few in the corner.

 

There was bright sunlight streaming from the wide entrance, where Harry assumed cars entered and exited the lot. It was gently sloped, leading from the ground-level streets to the underground lot.

 

“It’s empty most of the day,” Arnie bestowed unhelpfully.

 

“ _What—_? What are we—?”

 

A loud crash interrupted Harry’s queries. And loud neighs. Of horses.

 

Horses in bloody urban London.

 

There was vehement bickering sounding from the same direction.

 

“You can’t drive a chariot if your _useless_ life depended on it!”

 

“Shut up! At least I _have_ a life!”

 

The faint squabble grew louder and closer, along with a grating noise of wood on cement and multiple horses’ trotting and _clip clops_.

 

The entrance’s streaming sunlight was briefly obscured when a large form slid into the lot.

 

Harry saw horses with wings. And a white, aging chariot that looked like it belonged several hundred years in the past.

 

One pegasus huffed.

 

Harry blinked, heart palpitating like he was a middle-aged man with cholesterol problems. His mouth was dry.

 

Sure, he had seen magical creatures way, _way_ weirder than a pegasus. Like bloody dragons, giant spiders and its little spider children, and merpeople with razor-sharp teeth that did _not_ resemble the Little Mermaid at all.

 

But he hadn’t seen something so obviously and blatantly _magical_ and _not muggle_ in two months.

 

Harry croaked, “What...what is this?”

 

Arnie clapped him on his back, grinning widely and white teeth gleaming like a thousand suns. He flourished with a sweeping gesture to one of the majestic, silvery beasts with all the pride the world had to offer. “Your ride!”

 

Arnie never mentioned anything about a ride. Or horses with wings and an ancient chariot being that “ride” for that matter. “Arnie, I’m bloody confused right now. Ride to where, exactly?”

 

Arnie tilted his head, looking at Harry curiously. “Ride to Camp Half-Blood, of course! You have to learn all the demigod shebang and how to defend yourself. What do you think I Iris messaged Chiron for?”

 


	4. Big House Circus

Harry loved to fly.

 

He loved Quidditch. He loved riding his Firebolt and rising miles above the sky, circling in the air with nothing but his leather gear to protect him. He loved the cold winds that tickled his cheeks and filled his lungs with wonderment and awe. He loved watching the ground grow foggier and foggier as he disappeared into the clouds—seeing expectant onlookers and judgmental twats shrink into ants and crumbs made him feel like an invisible giant. He loved the feeling of the air thinning as he rose higher and higher—higher than the Wizarding regulation of broomstick elevation. (" _There’s a limit to what Cushioning Charms can do,"_ Hermione had warned time and again. “ _Stay low, Harry._ ")

 

Harry inhaled deeply, gripping the edge of the flying chariot tightly. It was much,  _much_ faster than his broomstick. They were probably going hundreds of miles per hour, but Harry couldn’t tell. His surroundings were a blur. Every time he thought he saw a singular, identifiable form of something, like a bird or a cloud, it quickly bled into a streak of color and disappeared.

 

Harry wasn’t sure how his face wasn’t ripped off from his skull from how fast they were going. But he assumed it had something to do with magic, just like everything else was.

 

“The camp’s in New York!” A blond kid named Austin, Hermes’ son, yelled over the wind. “We’ll be there soon, twenty minutes at the most with this bad boy!” He patted the white chariot.

 

Harry just nodded, hair flapping wildly in the wind. He thought he heard a horse neigh in indignation, kind of like _we’re the ones doing the work here!,_ but the howling wind didn't let him confirm his hallucinations.

 

The other occupant of the chariot, another blonde child of Hermes, Kayla, patted his arm comfortingly, as if to assuage him. Harry wondered if these Camp Half-Blood demigods picked up others of their kind like this—a wooden death contraption whisked away by flying horses, driven by inexperienced teenagers.

 

Finally, after what must have been fifteen minutes, they slowed down. Harry could still see the expansive, impossible blue of the ocean below his feet, but he also noticed the telltale signs of civilization—towering buildings and their glinting windows—peeking over the horizon.

 

“So,” Harry said after catching his breath, “where’s this Camp Half-Blood?”

 

Austin glanced back, hands gripping the leather reins. “You’ll see soon. It’s hard to miss ‘cause it’s freaking huge.”

 

Kayla flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s pretty big. There’s a border that keeps out monsters and mortals—anything except demigods, basically.”

 

“Mortals?” Harry repeated. “Regular people can’t go into your camp at all?” Oh Circe. Harry had almost forgotten he himself was a mortal.

 

“Well, not really.” At Harry’s inquisitive look, Austin continued, “I’m not sure actually. There’s this girl  Rachel, our Oracle, who goes to our camp, and she’s not a demigod. So now people say it just shields the camp from humans’ eyes, but I don’t think that’s exactly true—not fully anyway, because my mom couldn’t enter when she tried to pick me up after my first summer.” Austin shrugged. “Maybe it’s the boundary that decides whether someone could enter or not. That doesn’t really explain why some really, really lost pizza guys crossed the border on their own, though, so I don’t really know.”

 

Harry closed his eyes. So he would be either accepted or expelled based on the reasonings of a sentient border. Fun.

 

They circled around the area for a while. Austin and Kayla were peering over the edge, searching for their beloved camp.

 

“There!” Kayla shouted, pointing to her left. She squinted in the wind and through the clouds. “I see it!”

 

Harry heard Austin mutter under his breath, “ _Finally_.”

 

Harry scrunched his eyes in the direction of Kayla’s arm. There, far from the sky-breaching towers of New York, was an expansive grassland. Something— _a lot_ of things—were flickering in Harry’s vision. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be seeing. Was it...the Mist?

 

Kayla clutched his arm, shaking it with such strength Harry wondered if  _all_ demigods were Olympic athletes. Harry distinctly remembered his almost-suffocation, courtesy of Arnie, the Red-Headed-Son-of-Hecate.

 

“Do you see it?” Kayla cried out excitedly. “Isn’t it  _so_ pretty, Harry?”

 

Harry squinted at the area again. Nope, just grass—albeit with some flickering ghosts of images that Harry assumed was supposed to be the camp. “Yes,” he lied, “it’s very beautiful.”

 

The Hermes spawns beamed at his admittance.

 

“Hold on tight, Potter,” Austin warned, gripping the leather reins.

 

Harry only had two seconds to clutch the chariot’s edge before Austin made a little _hya-a!_ and urged the pegasi faster, whooping as they descended faster than any roller coaster in the world. Harry felt his eyes lose moisture quicker than the Sahara Desert, his knuckles turning white as snow under his death grip. Kayla pressed every inch of herself against his arm, laughing all the way.

 

Harry squeezed his eyes closed, gritting his teeth. Merlin’s pants, what was _up_ with this world?

 

Then, he felt it. It was the boundary, trying to force him out. Harry wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did.

 

 _You don’t belong here,_  it seemed to tell him. _Out. Get out._

 

Harry wasn’t sure if by "here" it was referring to the camp or the whole entire world he had unwittingly landed himself in.

 

A nudging pressure on Harry’s chest knocked his breath out of him. He groaned, clutching the chariot out of instinct. It only lasted a few milliseconds before they passed where he assumed the border was, with Harry only stumbling back two inches. Kayla’s death grip mostly kept him stationary. Harry exhaled a quiet sigh of relief; he was inside the camp now. But he didn’t know why. Harry could _feel_ its bitter distaste.

 

Their chariot resumed a normal trot now that they were landed. Harry peered over his shoulder. An innocent-looking pine tree seemingly waved back, guarded by a not-so-innocent-looking Rottweiler.

 

“Thalia’s Tree. Gives us protection and a heavier dose of Mist. It gets heavier as you approach the camp,” Kayla provided.

 

The dog flickered into a coppery dragon with a snake head. Then back to a mutt.

 

Harry blinked. Whatever he was supposed to be seeing without the Mist, he was comforted in the knowledge that it was smaller than the Hungarian Horntail.

 

It was like this world was a Disney version of Harry’s world. Not to say that this Greek-gods-exist world wasn’t plenty interesting. Just less scary, dangerous, and anxiety-inducing. He wasn’t sure if that made him relieved of the lessened risks or dispirited that it wasn’t a carbon copy _his_ world. Harry turned forward, a confusing concoction of emotions simmering in his chest.

 

Austin was staring at him curiously. “See a lot of dragons in London, Potter?”

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“People usually freak out when they see a massive dragon for the first time.”

 

He glanced back. The dragon had its tail wrapped around the trunk of the pine tree, snoozing peacefully with ringlets of smoke escaping its gaping nostrils. He shrugged.

 

Austin eyed him like he was looking at Harry for the first time.

 

“His name is Peleus,” Kayla chirped from Harry’s side. “He guards the Golden Fleece.”

 

Harry wanted to ask what the Golden Fleece was, but he resisted.

 

“It must’ve been hard fending for yourself in Britain,” Austin started. The pegasi began to trot lazily up the grassy hill. “Do you know who your parent is? Chiron didn't say.”

 

“No, unfortunately. Just found out about this whole thing today.”

 

“Really?” Austin peered through his blond bangs. “Are you sure? Maybe you were claimed but were sleeping at the time—or just didn’t know what the signs meant. After all, you just found out that you’re a demigod, right?”

 

Harry distinctly remembered Arnie explaining that general claimings involved holographic images of the demigod’s godly parent’s symbol materializing over their head. “Yeah,” he offered noncommittally. “Maybe it did come in my sleep.”

 

“No pink haze, fashionable clothes, or perfect makeup appeared on your face one day?”

 

“Er—what— _makeup?_ ” Harry sputtered. “ _No,_  I’m pretty sure _makeup_ didn’t magically appear on my face.”

 

Austin shrugged at Harry’s indignation. “Maybe you just don’t remember it.”

 

“Why’d you even ask?”

 

“Curiosity's sake.”

 

Were all demigods usually this cryptic? “What does it mean? If someone gets it, I mean. Which god does that belong to?”

 

“That’s a sign of Aphrodite. Ripped jeans, gold jewelry, new highlights, the works.” Austin barked a laugh. “At least her claiming is fun to watch. All the others tend to be a bit boring.”

 

“Who’s this Aphrodite? Sorry,” Harry said when Kayla and Austin looked at him incredulously.

 

“Never heard of Aphrodite? Seriously? What era were you born in? Even mortal schools teach Greek gods!”

 

“Uh, I didn’t pay attention in school. I’ve heard of them before, though,” Harry offered.

 

Austin and Kayla shared a look.

 

“Typical Aphrodite kids,” Kayla muttered under her breath.

 

“What?” Harry couldn't hear her.

 

She shook her head. “Don’t worry your dainty head about it.”

 

“What?” He repeated dumbly.

 

“You’ll soon learn all of them,” Kayla assured, patting his arm like he was a whiny two-year-old.

 

“Uh, well, alright,” Harry scratched his head. Did they think he was slow or something?

 

“C’mon! There’s a lot to show you,” Austin hopped off the chariot. He jerked his head at the winged horses. “You guys know where to go.”

 

The animals huffed and trotted away to where Harry assumed the stables were with all the arrogance in the world.

 

After climbing the hilly grassland for a few minutes and listening to Kayla's endless rants revolving around the Ares cabin, Harry almost crashed into Austin’s chest when the demigod suddenly turned a one-eighty.

 

“Is there a problem?”

 

Austin grinned, his shiny blond hair ruffling in the gentle wind. He gestured broadly with a wave of his arm. “Finally here. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.”

 

Over Austin's shoulder, flashes of images passed by, like when Dudley flipped the channels on the telly too fast and couldn't decide which cartoon to settle on. He saw a huge McDonald’s paradise complete with two-way drive thrus and jungle gyms, an off-brand amusement park called Seven Flags, a megablock of New York City skyscrapers, and a simple grassland expanding as far as his eye took him. They all flickered between the fast food chain and a glittering metropolis, as if the Mist couldn't quite make up its mind as to which image suited Harry's brain the best. It gave him a massive headache.

 

Harry squinted. He rubbed his eyes. He muttered and shook his head.

 

There was a slap on his back. “I know, I know. Can't quite believe your eyes, eh? Let's just say that our own camp’s architects have been making improvements.” Austin pointed at a brightly fluorescent circus tent in the distance. “That’s the Big House.” He jerked a thumb to his left. Harry stared at strawberry gardens that flickered into a muggle football field and then into a windmill farm. “That's the arts and crafts building.”

 

Kayla said, “I can't wait until you see the pegasus stables. You'll absolutely love it.”

 

“This is quite…” Harry stared at a floppy balloon-man from used car dealers break dancing in the wind. “...overwhelming,” he finished lamely.

 

“Isn't it?” Kayla sighed, “Annabeth’s been spoiling the camp with marble-everything. It's so shiny.”

 

Was Annabeth another one of those goddesses? His brain hurt trying to digest everything.

 

“Enough dilly dallying. We have to go see Chiron.” The blonds tugged on his arm.

 

As the trio trudged along the grassy hill towards the circus tent, Harry looked around. There were a few campers in bright neon orange shirts milling around, burying their nose in books or chatting with friends. They were too engrossed in whatever they were doing to notice them.

 

“Are there usually this little people?”

 

“You came at the most inopportune time, man. It's the school year.”

 

Harry stared at a pair of teenagers fighting with pool noodles. “Wouldn't it be better if people stayed during the school year and went home during summer?”

 

Austin raised an eyebrow. “Now why would we do that?”

 

“More training? Learning? Fighting?” Harry waved a hand towards the kids stabbing neon green styrofoam noodles into each other.

 

“Well, everyone certainly could benefit from more sword training. But y’know, family and school’s important too.”

 

“You guys don't have a school here?”

 

The blond shook his head. “Only summer camp. And I like it that way. I think I would go crazy if I had to learn all year long, as interesting as Greek lore is. You still in high school?”

 

Harry paused. “No.”

 

“You graduated already? Couldn’t have guessed. You don’t look like an adult, no offense.”

 

“Never graduated, mate.”

 

He thought he heard Kayla mutter under her breath, “Told you.”

 

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

 

“Well,” Harry rubbed his chin, “there were some things that I couldn’t control. I had to leave school to amend some stuff.”

 

“Wow, that’s really specific and not at all vague,” Kayla said sarcastically. Austin gave her a flick on her wrist with Kayla hissing and scowling after him, but nodded in agreement. Harry shrugged.

 

“Man, don’t even worry about it. High school sucks anyway. My charter school got shut down ‘cause they caught the administration embezzling funds.” Austin stretched his arms out. “And here I am. Taking online courses and having the time of my life escorting a newbie around.”

 

Harry chortled. “Thanks. I feel so welcome.”

 

The Hermes spawn cackled. “It’s no problem. C’mon, let’s go see Chiron.”

 

“Will I ever get to meet Dionysus?” Harry asked as they pulled up in front of the circus tent. Austin held up the flap for Kayla to scamper through.

 

“Mr. D? Even if you wanted to, I doubt he’ll give any camper the light of day, newbie or not.”

 

It would’ve been nice to see a god, just once.

 

The inside of the circus was odd, to say the least. There were beanbags and balloon chairs scattered around a large oak table, with party balloons and jack-o’-lanterns strewn about in random corners. Harry spied a thick book on a small coffee table, its title blinking between “101 Ways to Charm an Empousa” and “101 Ways to Carve Soap.”

 

“Chiron!” Kayla sang, skipping in front. “The British guy’s here!” She grabbed a biscuit from a nearby table and started walking back to the exit, saluting to Harry on the way. “See ya, Harry. As fun as our journey was, I’ve got some important things to do.”

 

“You mean writing love letters to Apollo?” Austin tossed over his shoulder.

 

She stuck her tongue out and Austin returned with a rude hand gesture. Turning with a flip of her hair, Kayla _harrumphed_ and strolled out, tent flap rustling.

 

“You must be Harry.”

 

A middle-aged man with thinning brown hair emerged from another room in a wheelchair. He briefly reminded Harry of Dumbledore: there was a distinct air around him, like he’s seen more in ten minutes of his life than Harry would ever even if he lived another hundred years. Harry held up a hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Like how he was supposed to be seeing a pair of horse legs rather than a set of wheels.

 

Harry would have to find out a way to see through the Mist. Not only would it save him the headache called the Bright Fluorescent Circus House, but Harry hated knowing that he was missing the visual joys of a wonderful new reality.

 

Chiron shook his hand amiably. “Only nice things, I hope. Did you encounter any trouble on the way here?”

 

“Nadda,” Austin answered. “I half-expected some gryphons to attack, what with three demigods and all. We got lucky.”

 

“That is excellent news. Come, Harry, sit. I expect that you have many questions.” Harry took a seat on an inflatable chair. “Would you like a sugar cookie? They’re very tasty. The Demeter children baked them. I believe they said it was ‘vegan,’ which seems to be all the rage now.” He nudged the same ceramic bowl that Kayla snatched a biscuit out of towards him.

 

Harry felt an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia, remembering his old mentor’s lemon drops. Clearing his throat, Harry shook his head. “No thank you.”

 

Chiron nodded sagely. “Vegan isn’t for everyone, I suppose. Arnie has informed me that he’s filled you in with most of how Camp Half-Blood runs.”

 

“I don’t think there’s a thing that he left out. I just need to stick that information in my brain somehow.”

 

The centaur chuckled. “Ah, yes. He can be hyperactive at times. Gracie even more so.” Harry withheld a grimace. “To get straight to things, you must understand that this is quite an unusual circumstance. Many campers will be curious as to how a demigod of your age has managed for so long all alone.”

 

“Yeah, how _did_ you survive this long?” Austin asked, leaning on the doorway.

 

Harry scratched his head. What was he supposed to say? “Luck, I assume. And there's less monsters in London, right?”

 

“Yes, that much is true.” The centaur rubbed his beard. “It’s a curious situation. Curiouser regarding your parentage. Nevertheless, I suppose we must wait until tonight's dinner for your claiming.” At Harry’s expression, Chiron assured him, “It is painless, don't worry.”

 

“No that's not—what if I don't get claimed? What happens then?”

 

“You will. The gods are bound to their promise. Percy—”

 

“If I was somehow an exception?” Harry pushed. “If I didn't have a godly parent? Will my memories be erased with the Mist? Will I get kicked out?”

 

Chiron’s brows furrowed. His wheelchair fidgeted like a wild animal. “You have already been accepted by the boundary. You are not mortal, that much is certain. If banishment is what you're concerned about, I assure you that that will not happen.”

 

“But what about the pizza delivery guy—”

 

He felt a hard slap on his back and an arm slung over his shoulder. “Aw, I thought you were supposed to be the adult! No need to be nervous, Harry. All demigods get claimed now,” Austin chirped cheerfully from his ear.

 

“Sure, sure,” the wizard gritted under his breath. He never claimed to be the best strategist, but now he knew for sure he couldn't even touch the title with a ten foot pole. Harry was so screwed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I'm a senior in high school and college app season as taken over my life. My whole fanfiction career has been spent on reading, so writing one myself is surprisingly really hard. I have so much more respect for the people who churn out 10k chapters every week. How do they do it?? Anyway, please review, it makes my day!


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